


You Can Be My Luck

by mangochi



Series: Almost Human Prompts [8]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, prompts, prosthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's leg is out of commission for a week and Dorian takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Be My Luck

John sits shivering at the side of the pier with an orange thermal blanket around his shoulders, glowering at any EMT who tries to approach him.

"You know," Dorian says thoughtfully, watching as another young, promising medic is sent scurrying, and John turns the full force of his scowl on his blissfully unaware partner.

"Don’t say it," he warns.

Dorian raises his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, man. If you’d only bothered to charge it properly-“

"Don’t."

"-wouldn’t have broken down mid-chase, and then you wouldn’t have-"

"I will end you," John threatens. "I will shove you right-"

"-in the lake and screwed it up."

John sighs belligerently, watching the technician haul his prosthetic away. “Whatever,” he mutters. “What’s done is done, right?”

"That’s one way of looking at it. Are you cold?" Dorian leans against him without waiting for the answer, cheerfully radiating heat like the little furnace who could, and John grumpily allows himself to be cuddled closer.

In the end, it turns out that John’s thoroughly ruined his leg and the technician gives him a dubious estimate of a week-long repair period. “Are you kidding?” John demands, when he gets the news. He’s at home, has been for a day now. Maldonado took one look at him after his drenching, snorted, and signed him off for a medical leave of absence.

"Nope." Dorian pokes his head in the fridge and pops back out with a beer. "Want one?" Dorian has an odd fascination with watching him drink things, John’s found out ever since Dorian moved into his trophy room, and- more recently- his bedroom. He also has a habit of trying to placate John with food whenever he thinks John’s getting mad at him, which is strangely endearing on its own and serves to distract John more than the bribe itself.

John takes the beer, then sets it down on the counter. “I can’t stay here for a week,” he says, but he’s thinking something else. What remains of his right leg is already starting to itch and by tonight, it’s going to start hurting. He drops a hand down automatically, clutching his thigh.

"You’ll be fine," Dorian says. He closes the fridge and leans against it, watching John thoughtfully. "Are you worried about getting around? I can talk to Rudy, see about getting you a wheelchair-"

"No. No, I don’t want that," John says distractedly, suddenly glad that he’s got a beer on hand after all. He pops the lid and takes a drink to give his mind a chance to catch up. "I’ll be fine," he says afterwards, echoing Dorian’s words, and tries to convince himself that it’s true.

Dorian’s head tilts a few degrees to the side, then he crosses the kitchen, stopping at John’s right side. “I don’t buy it.”

"It wasn’t for sale," John retorts. "I’ll be fine," he reiterates. "That’s it."

"You’re such a martyr," Dorian murmurs. His hand settles on the back of John’s neck, squeezing at the tight muscles, and John leans into his grip without thinking.

"I’m not," he counters reflexively. "Just telling you how it is."

"Martyr," Dorian repeats, but he’s smiling when he bends and plants a kiss against John’s forehead.

His imprisonment isn’t so bad, John has to grudgingly admit. Dorian takes a perverse joy in shuttling John around his apartment in a swivel chair, and he’s able to hop to the bathroom whenever he needs to. He only falls once, and Dorian fusses over him enough that he’s determined to never do it again in the bot’s presence.

"You hungry?" Dorian asks, when sunset comes and passes. John grunts vaguely, still watching the game. He still feels slightly lopsided on his right side, resulting in him using Dorian as a pillow, which neither of them mind too much.

"I can order in," Dorian suggests. The offer loses some of its temptation when John remembers that he’s the one paying, anyway, and he shakes his head.

"I’ll make something, then."

"Jesus, D," John says irritably. "Just watch the game, huh?" He pats Dorian’s knee and leaves his hand there, ignoring the self-conscious wave threatening to overwhelm him. Dorian chuckles, cover John’s hand with his own, and everything is good.

Naturally, the pain waits to strike until the lights are off and John’s sprawled in his bed, Dorian charging quietly in the corner.

It comes all at once, seizing like a cramp in his right thigh and shooting up into the base of his spine. For a second, he can still feel his phantom leg, feel hot blood spilling out even as he gets colder, and he struggles to sit up, tangling himself in the sheets and making it worse.

"Shit," John manages to gasp out, finally shoving the sheets aside. He can feel the sweat on his face, his neck, taste it in his mouth as he grabs at his leg. His fingers slide on the protective cap at the end of the stump, and he clutches at his trembling muscles, feels them jump and tense beneath his hand. "Motherfu-"

"John?" There’s a soft whirring sound as Dorian disconnects from his charger, just as another spike of agony makes itself known. John grits his teeth and doubles over, a hurt sound escaping involuntarily as he scrabbles for purchase on the sheets with his free hand.

"John, let me see-" Dorian’s hand covers his briefly, then moves to reach for his leg. 

"No," John grates, knocking his hand away clumsily. He tries to catch his breath, feels each inhale catch painfully in his throat.

"Let me," Dorian insists, reaching for him again.

"No, don’t-" John catches Dorian’s hand in his own this time and holds onto it with a sudden surge of desperation. "Don’t." His voice cracks and he hiccups to a stop, squeezing Dorian’s hand so hard that it almost hurts. "I don’t want you to….to see…" _See me like this,_ his mind supplies, but he can’t seem to form the words.

Dorian turns his palm upwards, wrapping his fingers around John’s wrist reassuringly. “I’ve seen you before, John,” he says quietly. “Every last inch of you, inside and out, it’s all up here.” He taps his temple with his free hand. “You think it matters to me? Huh?”

John swallows, fighting the urge to shove Dorian away and curl up in his own corner of the bed for the rest of the night. “No,” he finally says, his throat dry.

"That's right." Dorian puts a hand on his leg, and John wincing, trying to keep himself from grabbing Dorian again. "C'mon, baby, breathe."

"Don't call me that," John grinds out, then flinches when Dorian digs his fingertips into a knot.

"What- baby?" Dorian puts his free arm around John's shoulders, keeping him from tipping to the side. "You do have some childish moments, you have to admit."

"Do not." John exhales carefully, feeling the familiar pins and prickles as his blood flow begins to stabilize again. Dorian's hand is warm against his skin, sliding under his shorts as he massages John's thigh, and John sighs in newfound relief.

"Feel better?" Dorian prompts, and John gives a short nod. He's somewhat disappointed when Dorian moves his hand away, but the feeling is amended when Dorian doesn't leave his spot on the bed beside John. "You want me to stay with you tonight?" Dorian asks softly, and John's pathetically grateful that he didn't have to be the one to ask.

He settles with nodding again, leaning comfortably back against Dorian's chest. Dorian pulls at the sheets, trying to settle the two of them, and he's asleep as soon as Dorian's hand returns to rest on his leg.

The next morning, he sleeps in and immediately hates himself for it as soon as he opens his eyes. He blinks groggily at the clock, making out the digital numbers, and utters a groan of disgust.

"You up?" Dorian's voice floats in from the kitchen and John turns his head to see Dorian peeking in.

"Should've woken me," John grumbles, suppressing a yawn. "I'm gonna be thrown off all day-"

"Hold on, the pancakes are burning-" Dorian disappears abruptly and John nearly falls out of the bed trying to look around the corner after him.

"What pancakes?" he yells, and when Dorian doesn’t answer, John curses and sits up, planting his foot on the floor and beginning the arduous task of hopping to the kitchen.

He grabs onto the doorway and looks around to find Dorian mid-toss. “Hey,” he says indignantly, and Dorian looks over just as the pancake lands in the skillet.

"John, you’re going to hurt yourself," Dorian tells him reproachfully, and he sets the skillet back on the stove. "Sit down before you break the leg you’ve got left."

John considers getting annoyed, but he's too hungry for theatrics and he’s still just barely awake. “Fine,” he says instead, and makes his way to the kitchen counter. 

"I'm here for you, you know," Dorian calls out offhandedly, and John nearly topples over. He catches himself against the counter and straightens, red-faced and scowling.

"What?"

Dorian turns, grinning, and slides a perfect pancake onto the plate waiting on the counter. "I'm here for you," he repeats. "No matter what. You know that, right?" He's close enough to kiss now, eyes wide and earnest, and John searches Dorian's face, his heart thumping unsteadily in his chest.

"Yeah," he says finally, bumping their foreheads together, and he gives an embarrassed huff. "Thanks."

"Eat your pancake," Dorian whispers, then grabs his ass. John jumps, swearing, and Dorian ducks his clumsy right hook with a delighted laugh.


End file.
